


Almas Gemelas

by fedorah



Category: La casa de papel | Money Heist (TV)
Genre: Berlín is not dead, Fix-It, Fluff, M/M, Reunion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-19
Updated: 2020-04-19
Packaged: 2021-03-02 04:36:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,230
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23739199
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fedorah/pseuds/fedorah
Summary: Lisboa is not alone, when she enters the Bank. With her is someone long presumed dead...
Relationships: Berlin | Andrés de Fonollosa/Palermo | Martín Berrote
Comments: 30
Kudos: 133





	Almas Gemelas

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to write a longer story explaining all this, noticed I would never finish it, just wrote the ending instead and thought I might as well post it!  
> Berlin did not die but was a prisoner instead. The professor found out (because of Rio being taken) and managed to free him. He comes to the bank with Raquel and meets la banda again... and Palermo.
> 
> I haven't written anything in a long while... please be kind! These two just break my heart in all the best ways and I wanted to give them a moment of happiness. I hope you enjoy it!
> 
> Have fun!

The chopper took off and with a few parting shots they all ran inside – including the two newcomers.

When the door fell closed beside them, Lisbon tore off her mask. After a second of shock, Tokyo and her started laughing and hugged. Helsinki shouted “We've got them! They're here!” so the professor would know, who yelled out in happiness on the other end. Nairobi was next and gave Lisbon a wet kiss on the cheek just for the fun of it. Everyone was laughing and relieved – they did it. They were so close.

Everyone except Palermo and the other man who had not yet taken off his mask.  
When everything had quieted down a little, Lisbon turned around to her companion.

“Can I take it off for you?”

The following silence was deafening and full of uncertainty. Then he nodded slowly.  
Lisbon carefully lifted her hands to push them under the mask and gently push up the fabric. Despite her tenderness, he still flinched at the contact.

Slowly, his face was revealed: the lips, usually twisted in a superior grin now pressed together tightly, his cheeks peppered with a stubble he normally shaved, the eyes, pressed close, a deep frown on his forehead, finally his dark disheveled hair, slightly longer than he usually wore it. But despite the differences no-one could deny that it was Berlín standing before them. When the mask was off, Lisbon rested her hand briefly on his face, which prompted him to finally open his eyes.

He took in the faces around him, one after one:  
Denver, unusually quiet but hopeful; Nairobi, tears in her eyes from relief paired with sadness; Tokyo, a calculating look on her face; Helsinki, a reassuring smile on his lips; Stockholm, close to tears as well, but smiling; Rio, desperate but trying for a smile nonetheless.

“Did you miss me?”

His nonchalant question raised a few chuckles. He wanted to say something else, but then his eyes finally came to rest on the last person in the group. Palermo.

On his face, Berlín's gaze remained as if transfixed. It looked different than he remembered. There were fresh wounds like pinpricks around his eyes, which were bloodshot and tired. His expression was a far cry from his usual indifferent and sarcastic facade, but eerily similar to the expression he had worn the last time they had seen each other: on the verge of breaking down in despair.

After a few moments that felt like ages in the silence of the room, Berlín's lips curled upwards in a familiar smile.

“Martín. I should have known he would ask you. Or am I hallucinating?”

His words broke Palermo out of his stupor and a hopeful grin started to take over his face.

“It's our plan. I couldn't let him do it on his own.” His voice was still a bit shaky. “I told you I wanted to melt gold...” the with you he held back, because he hadn't believed it to be possible. But it was. Palermo bit his lip to stop a sob that wanted to force its way out of his throat.

When he saw a tear leak out of Andrés's eyes despite his smile, he moved seemingly on instinct. With two steps he was in front of him, crowded him in against the wall, and cradled his head in his hands. His touch was tender but firm.

Berlín lay his hands on his and took one of them to press a kiss into his palm.

“I told you, mi amor... time would bring us back together one way or another...”

Martín could not suppress the sob this time, but it was quickly swallowed in a desperate hungry kiss. In a way it felt like a reversal of their first and last kiss: this time it was Andrés who was shoved against the wall and Martín who took control.

After a moment, they simply stood there with their foreheads pressed together and breathing the same air.

When Tokyo cleared her throat, they became aware again of the others, all surrounding them.

Not the types to get embarrassed, they both couldn't help but laugh and with it felt a sadness fall off their shoulders. The others, in varying shades of red, be it from embarrassment or laughter, soon joined in and Denver yelled above them all:

“Let's give it up for Lisbon and Berlín!!!!”

They couldn't say who started it, but soon enough they were all chanting Bella Ciao and marching down the stairs, pushing their weapons up into the air with the rhythm.

Palermo and Berlín came last. They were singing as well, but their eyes remained fixed on each other and their fingers entwined.

Suddenly, Palermo brought them to a halt and waited for the others to go on ahead.

“Andrés. Stop. Don't sing of dying. You have died enough. I cannot lose you another time.”

But Andrés smiled.

“Mi amor,” now he cradled his face in his hands, “I shall be with you as long as you'll have me. You saved me, querido.”

“How did I save you? I didn't even know you lived. I mourned you, Andrés.”

Berlín shushed him with a finger on his lips.

“It was your words. When they tortured me, when they asked me questions, when they withheld the sunlight on my face and any other freedom they possibly could... I thought of you. Of our last moments together. Of your love for me... no no,” he wiped away the fresh tears spilling down Martín's face, “Don't cry. I remembered our kiss and what you said. No tengas miedo. No temas. And I didn't. I was never afraid. And what kept me going and what kept me sane was the knowledge that you were still out there, unhurt, unbothered by our little heist. That you would think of me, sadly maybe, but fondly. And it gave me the strength I needed to get back here. To you.”

He kissed him again, gently this time and slowly.

“And I realized that you and Sergio are the only people in this world I care about. And maybe – to some degree – the rest of our little gang. But you two. And whatever my mitochondria may think, my desire is to be with you in whatever form you wish. And also that kissing you was more exciting than any other kiss that came before.”

Palermo had buried his face in his neck and tried to just breathe through the waves of emotion that barraged through him and that he could barely process.

“Te quiero, Martín. That hasn't changed. And I don't know whether you still feel the same, but...”

“I do! Of course I do. Te quiero, Andrés.” He looked up into his eyes again. “I should have told you sooner. I regretted that I hadn't before.”

Berlín smiled softly.

“I knew.”

With a loud laugh Denver came back into the stairwell, where they were still standing.

“Guys, you need to see this! Manila shot Arturito in the leg!”

Berlín's face transformed into one of poor schadenfreude.

“Arturito is here, too?” he laughed, “It's like This is your life, did you invite everyone to my welcome home party? You spoil me so, querido!”

Laughing, they followed Denver through the door. The next chapter of their heist could begin – and now that they were together what could possibly go wrong?

**Author's Note:**

> If you like it, drop me a comment please? I'd be happy about any feedback, since I'm hoping to start a habit of writing again.


End file.
